Thursdays With Molly
by archetype.of.a.fangirl
Summary: He's the man visiting his own grave, and she's the girl who loved him. What might we deduce about their hearts? Follows the events after Reichenbach. Sherlolly.
1. Chapter 1

**Oof so I kind of went on hiatus from my other story (writer's block) so here's a little (or not so little) oneshot. Also, feels abound. Enjoy :)**

**~Archetype-of-a-fangirl**

* * *

She doesn't need Sherlock Holmes to tell her how ridiculously _sentimental _she is. To mourn the loss of a man who wasn't even dead was ridiculous, and she knows that her presence is unwarranted. She can almost see him rolling his eyes at her. _Sentiment is nothing more than a chemical defect found on the losing side, _he would scoff. Still, she can't help but wonder if a part of him isn't at least slightly pleased with the amount of people who truly love and care about him. If anything, the amount of people paying their final respects is ample proof of that.

The first time she visits Sherlock Holmes' grave, it's during his funeral. She's prepared for this, and she knows that her every move will be watched. She knows he's alive, and has no reason to mourn, but the tears that fall from her eyes that day are completely, truly genuine. Her grief isn't an act. She agonizes over the pain of her friends, the uncertainty of the future, but selfishly, more than anything else, she mourns the loss of his essence; his presence. It's the beginning of the end for this chapter in their lives, and she's terrified for him, terrified of the danger they're in.

She's managed to avoid making eye contact with everyone else, not because she's afraid they'll realize the truth, but because she knows that she won't be able to cope with their heartbreak. After all, she's the one who helped fake all of this, even if there was no other option. When she glances up, she inadvertently catches John's eye, and instantly shoves her head back down. Because no matter how hard he tries to be stoic, and how hard she tries to block it out, she sees his pain. She doesn't want to watch, but she does, out of the corner of her eye, and she can't help but notice the cane, the almost imperceptible flex in his arm, and it kills her to see what Sherlock's death has done to him. She sees Mrs Hudson's sobs silently wrack her frail frame: his death has taken its toll on her too. She sees Lestrade, standing far off to the side, torment and guilt etched on every crevice and plane of his face. One jump off of a building, and everything and everyone has irrevocably changed. She desperately wants to tell them the truth, to explain everything, but she also knows that more is at stake then their emotional welfare, and no matter how much it hurts, how much it pains her to see the people she considers her friends in so much grief and misery, she can't say a word otherwise.

She hadn't expected the ceremony to be so painful, but it is, even though she knows she must only feel a fraction of everyone else's pain. After all, she's the only one here who knows the truth. For the past three years, her life has completely revolved around this man, and even his fictional death is still enough to torment her. A small part of her dies when Mrs. Hudson puts a comforting hand on her shoulder. She is the cause of their pain, and she feels utterly wretched. She doesn't deserve their kindness or sympathy. She's an impostor, and thus doesn't deserve to be here. More than anything, she wishes Sherlock were here to make everything better. Only Molly notices the tall man watching them from the shadows when she leaves.

* * *

The next time she visits Sherlock's grave is the Thursday after "The Fall". She still doesn't know why she's even there, especially since she's the only one who knows that his death is a farce. She hasn't seen him since the day she smuggled him out of Bart's. It's on Thursdays that she misses him the most. It's on Thursdays that he always swishes into the lab, demanding that Molly procure the miscellaneous body parts that he needs for his various experiments, and out of sheer habit, she prepares a bag of phalanges for him before she remembers he won't (can't) stop by for them. The other girls eye the bag of fingers and give her pitying glances, whispering amongst themselves.

"_She completely adores him." "Quite sad actually." "Do you think he was actually a fraud?" "Probably was." "Poor Molly," _She hears all of this, and more, but can't say anything for fear of compromising the situation. The sudden realization that Sherlock is essentially dead to her is harrowing, and as she stitches up Mr. Herbert Carraway (victim number three in a case that would've taken Sherlock mere minutes to solve), she wishes he would sweep in with his billowy coat and fix this whole mess. Perhaps believing he was dead would have been a kinder fate for her; worrying about him was more than taking its toll. As she stares down at the glossy marble headstone, she tries not to think about her encounter with John earlier that day.

_"Molly," He had whispered. His face was haggard and dull, but she didn't miss the briefest spark of hope in his eyes as he addressed her. Without Sherlock by his side, he had seemed so incredibly lost and out of place. He never came to the lab without him."Is there...is there any, any possible way he's alive?" She felt the bile creep up her throat and she looked at him, willing her face to remain impassive. He cut her off right as she opened her mouth._

_"You know, as well as anyone that if there was anyone who could pull it off, it was -is- him. Please, Molly." She closed her eyes, and shook her head almost imperceptibly. The defeated slump in his shoulders wasn't lost on her. John closed his eyes, and rubbed his hands over his face._

_"I'm sorry, John." _

For the rest of the day, she's withdrawn and quieter than usual. When she thinks no one's watching, she slips out of the lab, grabs her coat and purse, and checks out of her shift.

She's lost in her thoughts, and before she realizes it, she's somehow arrived at his grave. _What is she doing_?

She's about to turn and go home when the very man plaguing her thoughts suddenly appears beside her.

"You, of all people should know better than to mourn me." He scoffs, but his voice lacks the caustic harshness that would have been present only a week ago. She freezes, but can't deny that this is what she was hoping for all along. "What are you doing here?" He turns his face, and she realizes that he's grieving too, even if he can't show it. With only one look, the emotional walls between them have come crashing down. While she, and Mrs. Hudson, and John are mourning his death, he's mourning the loss of them, and his former life. He sacrificed everything he's ever known for their safety, and unlike them, he doesn't have anyone he can rely on anymore. When she doesn't say anything, he cracks a reluctant smile.

"Please, Molly. I thought you'd be delighted to see me." He says. He tries to hide the falter in his voice, but she still notices. _He's broken. _Her hands, as if of a mind of their own, reach out to touch his face, as if questioning his very existence. He'd rather die than admit it, but he permits this act of sentiment because he needs this familiar comfort just as much as she does.

"Oh Sherlock," She whispers. His face is disguised well, but she thinks he looks almost...exposed without his Belstaff or scarf. He's worn, in the same way John is and no amounts of face putty or makeup can fully disguise the dark circles and bruises spotting his face. She throws her arms around him and cries. Molly feels him stiffen, and very reluctantly, he returns the gesture. It's a small act, but it brings her a sense of closure. He's okay, and for now, that's all that really matters. "You're a right arse, but of course I'm happy to see you," She doesn't care if people are watching, she doesn't care if they're judging, because at this moment, they're just two people mourning the loss of a loved one.

"What are you going to do now?" She asks. "When will you be back?"

"I need to track down other members of Moriarty's crime ring," He doesn't know when or _if _he'll be back, so he elaborates on his first answer, hoping she won't notice that he's (very deliberately) ignoring her second question. "It won't take long for them to realize that I'm not actually dead, so I need to have them taken care of before that happens." She doesn't need to ask what will happen if he doesn't succeed. They don't say much after that; at least nothing of importance.

An hour later, it's time for him to leave, and she unwraps the scarf around her neck and hands it to him with a wan smile. It's not his familiar blue scarf-John has that one-but it's warm and he's cold. She notices his reticence in taking it, but at least he does accept it. He hesitates, then loops it on and gives her that beautifully lopsided half smile.

"Goodbye, Molly Hooper," Is his parting phrase before he walks away, leaving her to contemplate their conversation alone. She still worried, beyond worried, but his visit makes it hurt just a little bit less. When she finally leaves, she realizes that visiting his grave makes her feel that much less lonely. She's still an impostor to everyone else, but at least standing there, in front of the grave of the man she helped kill, she understands that there was nothing she could have done. It's not her fault.

* * *

The next time she visits Sherlock's grave is on a Thursday evening, exactly a week after her first visit. She kneels down and polishes the tombstone with her sleeve. When the wind brushes against her bare neck she fleetingly wishes she had her scarf. She had given Sherlock her only one. Shivering, she stares at her glossy reflection. The roses and flowers left last week had already wilted, and the first signs of neglect are already visible. Molly isn't sure how long she's been sitting there, but when she sees a shadow fall behind her, she immediately knows who it is. He's disguised differently this time, but the fake glasses and straightened hair aren't enough to fool her. After all, she knows him better than most. Molly swallows the selfish little flutter of joy she feels in her stomach.

"Hey," She grins.

"...Hi." He sits down next to her. It's dangerous for him to be here; even if he's in disguise, but he feels this irrational need to check up on her. He owes her though, so it really doesn't matter, does it? It doesn't necessarily mean that he's attached to her, after all. Gratitude and nostalgia are all it is.

"...How are you?" It's a loaded question, and they both know what she really means. _When will he be back? How is his mission going? Is he okay? What will become of them?_

"...I'm fine." He smiles at her. She isn't reassured by his answer, but lets it go. Sherlock pulls off the scarf she gave him last week and wraps it around her shoulders like a shawl.

"Why are you here?" She knows why _she's _here, but his motives are an enigma. He utters the words she never thought she'd hear him say.

"I...I don't know." Molly's his only link to her former life besides Mycroft, and for some reason, he's unwilling to relinquish it. Besides, he feels oddly protective of her. It isn't fair for him to put such a huge burden on her, and it isn't fair for him to continue to endanger her by visiting her, but nothing about this situation is fair, and he's always been selfish like that. She doesn't say anything and instead continues to lean against him.

"How are you?" He asks. She notices that he seems unsure, as if he didn't know how to inquire after another person's well-being. Sherlock Holmes is the most aggravatingly brilliant man she has ever had the misfortune of knowing, and she knows he can be incredibly charming when he chooses to, but when it comes to showing genuine emotion, he's at a loss. So she talks. She prattles about her day, work, Toby, and other inconsequential things as if they've been friends for ages. It's ironic that after years of knowing each other, it takes one fake suicide to reach this level of comfort with each other, but in a way, they understand each other, and she's okay with that. When she moves to give him back her scarf, he declines, and she treasures this little piece of him.

"Okay," whispers Molly. He gives her that smile again.

"Okay,"

* * *

She's distracted for the rest of the week, and when next Thursday comes, she returns to his grave at precisely the same time. She sees his tall form looming over the grave, and a wry smile graces her face.

"You're back," She accuses lightly.

"Keeping tabs on things," He shrugs. He notices the bouquet of sunflowers dangling awkwardly from her hands, but for once, has the tact to not say anything. She knows it's silly, but the gesture is more symbolic for her than anything else.

"John's well." She murmurs, setting down the flowers. When he gives her a piercing look, her eyes are still trained on his headstone, as if it held the answers to all of her questions. "Better than expected. He's...he's coping." She explains. He seems satisfied-or as satisfied as he'll ever be-with her response, but she knows him, and she knows he's still hurting. "There was nothing you could do." He knows this, she knows this, and even though it doesn't lessen the pain, they've both come to terms with it.

They stand in silence for a few more minutes before he says: "Do you regret it?" It's become commonplace now, this implicit understanding and confusion. She's not quite sure if he's referring to her assistance in his suicide or just the past five years in general, but either way, she knows what her answer is.

"No," she says, and never in her life has she felt more sure about her answer. A sense of relief washes over him, and he hides his smile.

"Here," He thrusts that familiar woolen scarf into her hands, and like a ghost, he turns and vanishes into the night. A bit abrupt, but it doesn't matter. She knows he's heard her.

* * *

Like clockwork, they meet again like this over the course of the next month. During what would have been her 6th visit, he fails to show, and she's disappointed and overcome with worry. He's never missed a meeting. She waits for another forty five minutes, and when she's accepted the fact that he isn't coming, she leaves with a heavy heart.

As she steps off the curb towards the street she receives a text from an unknown number. _Check the sunflowers_, it says. She peers left, then right, and when she's satisfied that her behavior isn't too obvious, she casually loops back to his grave. She picks up the bouquet and a small sticky note flutters off. Upon closer inspection, she finds a small camera also attached to one of the stems.

"Hi. In Germany." It must have been a strange sight, to see someone grinning so widely the grave of a loved one, but smile she does. He's okay, and he hasn't forgotten. Spirits lifted, she tucks the note into her pocket and begins to talk into the camera.

It's an irrational act of sentiment, and he curses himself for contacting her. There's a million reasons why he shouldn't have done it, least of all the danger of his message being intercepted, but he didn't want her to worry more than she already was. Besides, Molly's come to represent home for him, more so than Mycroft, or even his own parents. Not that he'd ever admit it. So he contacts Mycroft, and has him place the camera before she arrives. Mycroft is already keeping tabs on all of them so his weekly visits are actually redundant. He can't remember the last time he acted on emotion rather than reason. Still, it's nice, and as he curls up in front of his computer, he replays her message, silently listening and chuckling at her rambling anecdotes. He doesn't realize he's smiling until after her message ends.

* * *

He has to stay in Germany and Austria for the next two weeks to tie up some loose ends, and each week, he sends her the same text. _Check the flowers. _So, each week, she continues to check the flowers, and he continues to remain in contact with her. As he sprints through an empty warehouse on what he hopes will be his last assignment in Prague, he briefly wonders what mundane task _she's _completing. Whatever it is, he wishes he were there.

* * *

Molly almost decides against visiting the cemetery today. Her coworkers are getting worried.

_"Really, Molly." Emma had said. "Let's go." Molly looked at her._

_"What? What are-" Emma gave Beth a meaningful look._

_"We're staging an intervention. Every week you go visit him. I know you need to grieve, but...it's starting to get unhealt_hy." Unhealthy? Oh, she _knows _it's unhealthy. It still doesn't change how she feels, though.

After an hour of pleading and persuasion, she's finally managed to convince them that, really, she's fine. Although he (or Mycroft) had, without fail, left the camera every single week, she's beginning to worry that he hasn't been receiving her messages. If he had, he most certainly never acknowledged it. Logically, she knew that it was nearly impossible for him to contact her without some threat on his safety, but she was sure Mycroft would have been able to provide some indication. Nevertheless, Molly is a creature of habit, and so, at exactly 4:47 P.M, she signs out of her shift and begins her walk to the cemetery. To her surprise, a tall figure is already waiting for her by the time she arrives.

"You're 4 minutes and 16 seconds late," He says by way of greeting. She knows him well enough to know that this is his way of alleviating her of any worries she may have had. She grins, even though she knows she must look ridiculous.

"Hi." She whispers. He still won't talk about his mission, and to be honest, she's expecting nothing more from him. For all that Sherlock was a prodigy at deductions, Molly had learned her fair share as well. The carefully concealed dark circles, foreign fibers, and mismatched coat buttons tell the story better than he ever could, so she doesn't press him for the details. Instead, she just waits for him to speak first.

"How..." His voice cracks slightly, and he tries to disguise it with an awkward cough. "How is...everyone?". So she tries. She tries to update him, to serve as the sole link between the life he leads now and the life he left behind. She tries to explain their predicaments, and to the best of her ability, their emotional welfare.

"I think... I think it's better now," She treads, cautiously. Sherlock grimaces, but doesn't say anything. He could deduce as much, anyways. In their own respective ways, they were both trying to restore order and balance into their uprooted lives.

"That's good."

"So...how...how was Germany?" He gives her a wry smile.

"You know I can't tell you anything."

"Maybe not, but you can tell me how it went." He's impressed by her bravado. Molly Hooper from two months ago wouldn't have dared.

"It's harder than I expected." She mock gasps, and the gravity of the situation is instantly lessened.

"I never thought I'd live to see the day when YOU would actually admit that." He rolls his eyes, but she doesn't miss the mirth on his face.

So they talk, and she rambles on, the same way she has to his camera, except now he's there, in person. She can see his face, watch his reaction, hear his laugh, and it's infinitely better than talking into the cold camera. Despite this entire mess, she's glad she at least has him, and he, her.

When it's time for him to go, he permits her to hug him. Five seconds, no more, no less, and when those few moments are up, he pulls away with a cough and moves to call a cab.

"Wait," She says, digging into her pocket. "Here," She holds out his scarf, the same scarf that she has been carrying on her person for the past three weeks. It's become their thing now, to exchange that wool scarf between them. Neither of them will admit it, but the scarf is comforting, in more ways than one. This time, he doesn't hesitate. He smiles, accepts the scarf, and as he walks away, she sees him wrap her scarf around his own neck. The lingering warmth of his embrace is enough to distract her from the gusty winds blowing against _her_ scarf-free neck.

* * *

She worries about him, she really does. Over the past two months, she's noticed that he's beginning to crack, and the cool, detached facade of a mask he wears is beginning to melt. He's no longer the analytical, perfect, consulting detective and she suspects that it scares him just as much as it scares her. After his return from Germany, she had hoped he'd at least be that much closer to succeeding, that much closer to returning to normalcy. Obviously not.

He's twenty minutes late this time. Last week, it was 17, and the week before, it was 10. She's no longer an anxious mess when he's late.

"Hello," he greets. She whirls around, ready to give him a piece of her mind, when she suddenly catches sight of the numerous cuts and bruises marring his face.

"You're hurt." it's a statement, and he doesn't even bother to refute her. "Come on." When he protests, she reasons with him. "You can't just walk around London looking like that,"

"Fine," he huffs, and she tugs him back to her flat. She pushes him onto the couch, and is surprised at her own bravado. Certainly Molly from three months ago wouldn't dare pull such a stunt.

"Sit. I'm going to go get my supplies," She pads into her kitchen and as he waits, he peers around the room. Still single, still has a cat, still working at Bart's. For the most part, she hasn't changed, and for the life of him, he couldn't say why he was so pleased with that. She comes back with paper towels, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and an assortment of bandages.

"Shh, sit still. This will sting."

"Yes, Molly. I KNOW," The tone in his voice is so exasperated it's almost like old times, and when she catches his eye, she knows he's thinking the same thing. They both start giggling, and the bandages are temporarily forgotten. Soon they're both gasping from the absurdity of it, and neither of them can quite remember what exactly they were laughing about to begin with.

"Sit STILL, you're like a wiggly puppy." She snickers. After she cleans his face, and bandages his wounds, his face becomes somber and he looks at her uncertainly. He opens his mouth. Then shuts it. Then opens it again. Molly watches Sherlock Holmes open and close his mouth like a goldfish and giggles at him. _This _was the man feared by criminals all over the world, _this _was the man with the international reputation. He shuffles his feet, embarrassed.

"Thank...thank you. Very much. For this." He gestures to his face and she grins at him. It's an awkward acknowledgment for everything she's done, but at that moment, they are the most beautiful seven words he could have ever said to her. Before she can lose her nerve, she pecks him on the cheek. He freezes, and nothing he's ever experienced, no deduction can explain the strange emotion he feels when she does this. Molly mistakes his silence for anger and mentally berates herself for pushing too hard.

"I-I'm sorry...my mother, she...she used to say kisses made everything better. I shouldn't have, I'm sorry, I just-" She blushes furiously. He sees her stammer, and he realizes that the rapport he has built post-fake-suicide with Molly is rapidly crumbling. He realizes that he rather likes this stronger version of Molly, and sees that her uncertainty has once again transformed into the flustering pathologist colleague from Bart's. It saddens him knowing that he has reduced her to this with nothing more than a piercing glance.

"No," He cuts her off. "It's..." He stops and she waits for him to continue, anxiously. "It's okay."

"Okay,"

"I've upset you," He frowns.

"No! What? No! I just, I shouldn't have-" With only a moment's pause, he kisses her on the cheek, effectively halting her flustered apology.

"A friend of mine once told me that kisses make everything better." He offers by way of explanation. Her cheeks flush a violent red, and for a fleeting moment, he realizes how adorable she looks with her frazzled hair and pink cheeks. Before his mind can even register their proximity to each other, he leans in and kisses her, but this time, on the lips. Although its a simple kiss, and barely lasts a second, it means more to Molly than any words or platitudes he could've said, and in that split second, she realizes that she would go to the ends of the Earth for him. Like a deer in the headlights, Sherlock is completely and utterly transfixed, and emotions ranging from bewilderment to embarrassment cross his face as he pulls away.

"Sherlock," She whispers. Suddenly, the magnitude of what he's just done weighs down on him, and he freezes. "Sherlock," She repeats, but this time it's tinged with worry for him. It isn't until Toby meows that he is snapped out of his reverie.

"I need to go." He says. Molly frowns at the sudden detachment in his tone, but doesn't say anything. She might have been worried if it hadn't been for the fact that Sherlock had very deliberately left the scarf behind. He'll be back; she was sure of it.

* * *

It's been over a week after the _incident _and he hasn't stopped thinking about the kiss. Never in his life has he ever felt so conflicted and at odds with himself.

An hour before he's supposed to meet Molly, he replays that night on her couch in his mind. More than once, he gets up as if to pace the room, before sitting back down. He can't do this. He can't. She's becoming such an overwhelming presence in his life. When she kissed him, he felt something beyond his usual apathy. He should've already distanced himself from her by now, but he hasn't. He shouldn't have kissed her either, and in retrospect, there were a million things he wished he could reverse, but it's too late to rectify _that _lapse of judgment. . He's tried to erase her, erase the memories of last week, but then he sees _her _(or at least the mind palace version of her) begging him, not to and he can't. Because she means more to him than anyone will never know, and he's always valued her. Still, she's a weakness..._his _weakness... and he hates himself for allowing himself to become so attached to her. There's a room now, a whole room dedicated to her in his mind palace, and even that's not enough. Without him even realizing it, she has already begun to permeate through his walls, maybe even more than John has, and he can't handle that. The reason he's even _in _this mess is because he let his sentiment overpower his common sense. But no longer.

So he texts Mycroft.

"Watch her for me -SH" reads his message. It only takes a minute for his brother to respond.

"Finally tired of your little goldfish, dear brother?" He doesn't even bother to correct Mycroft. It _distraction _to end, and this is the easiest way to do it. He knows that by not showing up, he will invariably break her heart. Molly's had enough pain at his hands, but it's better for her to be broken-hearted than dead. Maybe it was unnecessarily cruel, but it was better for the both of them in the long run, anyways_. Molly Hooper deserves so much more than I could ever offer,_ he thinks to himself, if only to quiet his nagging conscience. As the clock ticks four, he repeats this mantra to himself. _Molly deserves more. _

* * *

When Molly arrives at the cemetery, she's surprised that he's not there. She's slightly disappointed that he's late, especially because of the rapport she thought she had built with him last week, but she's not necessarily worried. When he'd kissed her last week, she'd been so _sure _that he _cared_. But he's always late; it doesn't mean anything. She's so sure he'll show up, maybe this time with a reasonable explanation. So she waits. And waits. And waits, for what seems to be an interminable amount of time. And even though she's an exceptionally patient woman, by the time an hour has passed, she's a nervous wreck. No matter how late he is, he's never NOT showed up before without any warning or means of contact. She checks the flowers next to his tombstone, but there isn't a note there. Her phone is eerily silent too. No news from Mycroft either. Her mind betrays her with images of him injured, or worse, dead. With every minute that passes by, the dread in her stomach only increases and by the second hour, she starts to cry. She's so, so terrified that something's happened to him. If she had been thinking rationally, she would have realized that if anything had actually happened to Sherlock, Mycroft would've said something, but at this point, she's anything but rational.

Several yards away, an elderly woman notices her distress and makes her way over to Molly. As her shadow falls over Molly's back, Molly whirls around.

"Hello dearie," the woman says, in a way so reminiscent of Mrs. Hudson that she starts to tear up again. Other than John and occasionally Lestrade, she hasn't seen any of her old friends since Sherlock's funeral. She sits down next to Molly, and wraps the younger woman in a warm embrace. Perhaps under other circumstances, she might have been suspicious of this woman, but something about her seems so comfortingly familiar that she instinctively trusts her. The woman doesn't ask any questions, just lets her grieve, and for that, Molly's incredibly grateful. She offers Molly a Kleenex, and they sit there for several minutes.

"I've lost my son not too long ago. I miss him everyday." The woman says soothingly, with a final pat on Molly's shoulder. "I can't say it'll be okay, but it gets better, with time." Molly gives her a watery smile, suddenly embarrassed.

"Th-thank you. I've..." She gestures towards the street vaguely. "I've...got to, um, go. Thank you. Again. Thank you." The woman gives her the same, gentle smile, and Molly smiles sheepishly back. After she turns around the corner, the woman turns away from Sherlock's grave and walks towards a familiarly black limo down the street. The driver hops out, and opens the door for her. As she slides into the back seat, she is greeted by her eldest son.

"You didn't have to do that, mummy." Mycroft Holmes says. Violet Holmes simply glares at him.

"Nonsense. Now take me home, Mycroft." She continues to berate him, and as the limousine slinks back down the street, the oldest Holmes child and head of the British Government bows his head like a scolded dog.

"Yes, mummy."

* * *

For the next week, and the week after that, he still doesn't show up, and still hasn't made any form of contact with her. She's received confirmation from Anthea that Sherlock is, in fact, not dead, or even injured, and is currently gallivanting around London. So he'd just chosen not to show up. Chosen to let her worry without any consideration to what he's been doing to her. After all the events of the past three months, she hates how she means nothing to him, hates the way she still hangs around him like a sick puppy regardless, hates how he can just manipulate her around like a rag doll. But no longer. And for the first time in four years, she looks at her reflection, and sees not a mousy, pathetic, pathologist, but a strong woman who deserves better. She leaves the neatly folded scarf on his pseudo grave, and walks away.

After she leaves, Sherlock Holmes creeps out from the street, and stands in precisely the same spot she had occupied only moments before. When he sees the scarf, he tries to ignore the sudden pain that reverberates in him. She's poisoning him. When he sees sunflowers, he thinks of all the messages she'd left for him. When he walks down the street, he sees hundreds, thousands of wool scarves taunting him in the store displays. Every little thing reminds him of her. Sure, he's probably completely screwed things up with Molly, but it doesn't matter because he desperately tries to convince himself it's for the better. He's done a lot of stupid and risky things in his 36 years, but he won't-can't-take unnecessary risks, especially when it could endanger the people he loves. She's safer this way, he thinks, but he still picks up her scarf and pockets it.

He's tempted to visit his parents, but the last time he had, Mummy had smacked him upside the head and delivered a very stern scolding for hurting her "future daughter in law".

But even Mycroft, who as a rule loathed to contradict Mummy, had to side with Sherlock on this one. He's doing the right thing, and even if Molly's heartbroken now, he'd much rather her be hurt than dead. So why does he feel so damn miserable about it?

* * *

With that, the tenuous friendship that had begun to form between a certain detective and pathologist is instantly shattered, and for nearly two months, there is no form of communication between the two. Sherlock continues to infiltrate Moriarty's network, and Molly continues to perform autopsies. When Emma pesters her for what has to be the thousandth time about finding Molly a date, she doesn't hesitate. For the first time since Jim from I.T., she says yes to a date with some man named Tom, and yes to a life beyond Sherlock Holmes. The date is scheduled for Thursday night.

* * *

He's close. He's so damn close to finishing this mission that he could have weeped. It's been at least a month since he's had a proper meal and sleep, and although he had managed to survive with minimal sleep or food in the past, this time he doesn't have John or Mrs. Hudson to keep him in check. To say that the past six months have been strenuous is a severe understatement. The cost of such living is more than evident in his appearance. Besides his newly straightened and dyed hair (his dark curls were too recognizable), and dirt brown contacts, he's also worn and haggard beyond recognition. More than anything he just wants to go home.

"You're becoming soft, brother dear," is Mycroft's snide comment when Sherlock finally answers his phone. Sherlock doesn't deign to respond to his remark.

"Yes, yes, get on with it." Sherlock snaps. "Couldn't you have just texted me this?" He can almost see Mycroft's theatrical pout on the other end. Because Mycroft is his usual unpleasant self, Sherlock deduces that everyone was fine.

"You'll be pleased to know that everyone's doing well. John has recently become romantically attached, Mrs. Hudson has been attending her bridge club again, and Mother and Father miss their darling little boy _dreadfully_." So he was right. Still, he can't help but notice that Mycroft had (very deliberately) omitted one person from his report, and for a brief moment, debates about inquiring. If he does, Mycroft will never let him hear the end of it. Logically, he knows that she is fine (at least physically), but then again...he's also extremely nosy. Especially with matters concerning Molly Hooper. And god forbid she become entangled with yet _another _sociopath.

On the other end, Mycroft anticipates what his brother is going to ask, but also notes his uncharacteristic reticence in doing so. Interesting.

"Well Sherlock, if that's all..." He says, temporarily forgetting that _he _was the one who called first, not the other way around. "I must be going; duty calls."

"Wait," Sherlock interrupts quietly. "What about Molly?"

"Ah, I was wondering when you'd ask." Mycroft's smug smile is audible even through the phone. "Miss Hooper is fine, although she also went on a few dates with an acquaintance."

"A date?" Sherlock sounds flabbergasted.

"Yes Sherlock, a date. You see, when a person is interested in-" Sherlock's hiss cuts him off.

"Is he safe?" Mycroft rolls his eyes.

"Oh for heaven's sake, do give me some credit; of course he's safe. He's inconsequential. Also, mummy requested that I 'lecture you some more about breaking that poor girl's heart'. Although, really Sherlock-". He hangs up on Mycroft before he can deliver the promised lecture. As much as it bothers him that Molly's moved on (and so quickly too), there's nothing he can do. Its a small solace that at least his actions haven't seemed to cause her too much pain. Irrationally, he wants to visit her, to explain, but with so much on the line, and the completion of his mission being so close, he can't afford to slip up. And so, for the ninth consecutive Thursday, he doesn't visit.

* * *

On what would've been the first anniversary of her first grave side meeting with Sherlock, she impulsively makes the decision to visit his grave. Even though Thursdays are her date nights with Tom (and no, the irony isn't lost on her either) she cancels on him. She'd never admit it, even to herself, but Sherlock still has priority over him, even after all this time. She'd never imagined love would feel this way, and wonders if it's just a little overrated, and wonders if Tom were Sherlock if she'd feel any differently. She brushes that though aside. She's happy, more than happy, with Tom, even if he's a little thick sometimes, and he's healed her in ways that Sherlock never could. For all his shortcomings, he loves her for nothing more than she can offer, and she'll always be grateful for that.

By the time she arrives in the park, she's already regretting her decision to come. She should've stayed home with Tom and Toby. So what if he sometimes has the personality of a slab of tofu? She's far better off, far _happier_, with Tom than a certain consulting detective she could name. She should've stayed to snuggle in and watch Doctor Who. She should ha-What? For the briefest moment, her heart stops. Because like the prodigal son, Sherlock Holmes has returned, and he's waiting for her.

Maybe, subconsciously, she had been expecting him, but now that he's here, she can't deal with it. So she turns, and walks away.

* * *

Ever since his phone call with Mycroft, his brother has taken it upon himself to inform Sherlock of Molly's comings and goings. She doesn't really do much besides go to work and go on dates with that repulsive (he knows virtually nothing about the man, but he is sure someone that _ordinary _would have to be repulsive) boyfriend of hers every Thursday. Perhaps it wouldn't quite disturb him so much if it was any other day of the week, but he feels slightly...hurt...that she would pick Thursdays, of all days. It's ridiculous to lay claim to a day of the week, but he's always considered Thursdays to be _his _day, and he's more than bothered that she seems to have forgotten him already. To be fair, it _is _mostly his fault. So when Mycroft reveals that Molly has, in fact, changed her plans with Tom, he knows exactly where she's headed. After all, it's no coincidence that she'd go today, of all days. He can always rely on her bloody sentiment. But this time, she's the one who walks away first.

"Wait," He says it before his mind can even register what he's doing. There's a slight falter in her stride, but she keeps moving. His ribs are still sore from his "adventure" last week, and he mentally curses her before running to catch up to her. He whispers her name, and that's what finally makes her pause. "Molly," She regrets showing her indecision, but stays anyways. Because even though he'd hurt her more times than she can count, she still wants to decipher the mystery that is Sherlock Holmes.

"What are you doing here?" She asks, so quietly that Sherlock has to strain to hear her. For a moment, there's nothing but the sound of cars whizzing by, until he finally answers.

"I had to finish some-" She cuts him off with more force than he'd have expected from Molly Hooper.

"Where were you?" Her voice drops another octave. In anger? Grief? He can't tell.

"It was dange-" She cuts him off.

"That didn't stop you when you were in Germany."

"It was dangerous," He repeats.

"Please," she scoffs. "One word, one sign, is all I would've needed. You just couldn't be bothered."

"I couldn't-"

"How could you lie to me?" Her voice has dropped again in volume, and there are tears in her eyes, but the sheer force behind her words would have been enough to cower even the bravest of men. In this moment, she hates this man more than anything or anyone else in the world, save for Moriarty. She hates how he treats her, even after all this time, and she hates that despite everything, he still has the power to break her heart.

"I waited for you," her nose is slightly pink and her eyes are stinging. "for weeks, and weeks, and you never showed up. I was _scared_, Sherlock."

"I...I'm sorry." Suddenly, she's furious. How _dare _he? How could he even _dare _to expect that two little words could wash away months of pain. "It was for-"

"Don't you dare say it was 'for my own safety'. Did I care about my damned safety when I helped you? No! Did I give a shit about my safety when I continued to meet you here, week after week? No, I did not! I did it, because I would've done anything to make sure that you were okay." He's always known that she was infatuated with him, but the blunt force of her loyalty knocks the air out of him. Only John and his immediate family have ever cared for him like this.

"Molly, I didn't want you to get hurt," he reiterates. While he knows that her anger towards him is justified, he also wants her to understand why he did it.

"But you let me worry and grieve. I thought you were _dead _until your dear brother even bothered to inform me otherwise. No, the great Sherlock Holmes couldn't be bothered." Her voice cracks as weeks of pent of anger and sadness tear its way out of her. "You were scared, weren't you?" Sherlock stiffens.

"You were scared that maybe you could feel something for someone who should've meant nothing to you, and it_ scared you_. But no, you _had _to prove that you would never, ever care for anyone. So what was I? Nothing to you? Someone you could use and toss away as soon as she'd served her purpose? For such a brilliant man, you're a fool." She spits.

"I didn't-"

"GODDAMN IT SHERLOCK!" Tears are already running down her face, and it kills him to know that this is his fault. "I _LOVED _YOU!" She screams. They both freeze. "I_ loved you_," Her voice is quiet again, but the raw emotion doesn't change. On impulse, he pulls her into his arms. "Let go of me. Let go, let go, let me _go_." She balls her hands into fists and begins to (futilely) pound her fists against his chest.

"Even my _friends _knew you would do this to me, but no. I _had _to trust you, didn't I? _'You don't mean anything to him, better stop before he hurts you, Molly'._ God, I was so stupid to think-"

"Molly... They were right. I'll just end up hurting you either way."

"I can't do this Sherlock!_ I can't handle this anymore_." He tries not to hear the way her voice cracks, or see the way her shoulders are slumped in defeat.

"I'm only ever going to bring you down, aren't I?" He whispers ruefully. She says nothing. "You deserve so much more than I could ever offer you."

"I know."

"He's a lucky man," He's talking about Tom now.

"You don't even know him," She drops her face, and stares at the ground.

"No, I don't. But I know you, and you deserve...better." Perhaps if she'd looked up , she would have seen the terror and misery on his face, would have realized that she means so much more to Sherlock more than anyone will ever know. But she continues to stare at the ground, and thus remains blissfully unaware.

"He is one of the kindest, most understanding men I have ever met. He never stands me up, is nice to Toby, and would never hurt me the way that you have." So even if he isn't Sherlock, second best is still better than nothing. She has a life beyond Sherlock Holmes.

"He's...he's good for you, isn't he?" She lowered her head, blinking away the mist in her eyes.

"Yeah, he is." As she turns to leave, she sees the outline of what appears to be her scarf in his coat pocket and stops. "I'm...I'm happy now. I haven't been this happy in ages, and I don't want to mess that up. Just...don't visit me anymore. I love you, and maybe I always will, but I love him too, and I can't handle you being around anymore. I know visiting is probably interfering with your mission anyways, so don't. If you ever need anything, I'll be here, but until your mission is complete, just please..." He fingers the edge of her scarf.

"I understand," And when he returns her scarf, it hurts to know that this will be the last time he'll ever do so.

* * *

He'd caught a break in his mission (which was also the main reason he was able to come back to London), but now he has to go to Spain. As Molly's getting ready for bed, he's already curled up in the back of a dubious freight truck, halfway to Pamplona. The ride is bumpy at best, but he still manages to fall into a fitful sleep that night. He's dreaming of Moriarty, when the scene shifts, and he finds himself suddenly facing a pair of very large, very familiar, doe brown eyes. It's _her_. Her face, and hair, and jumper, and everything that is so quintessentially Molly. Her familiar citrus and vanilla scent wafts over him, and he could stand there for eternity and never want for anything. She smiles with such heartbreaking innocence that he wants nothing more than to hop out of the truck and turn around for her. Although a conscious and thinking Sherlock would never have indulged in such thoughts, his subconscious was obviously more than happy to. He sees Moriarty creep up behind her, and even though he tries to warn her, he can't make a sound, can't move his body. She keeps looking at him with that same, trusting, loving expression. When Moriarty inevitably kills her, she dies with nothing more than a whimper, that hauntingly beautiful expression now marred with fear. The other man circles Sherlock. He laughs.

"I always told you I'd burn the heart out of you!" Moriarty's declares, gleefully. The statement echoes through his mind like a broken record as the scene goes out of focus once more. When he wakes up less than an hour later, he can't remember what exactly he had dreamed about, but knows that it must have been related to that strangely inescapable feeling of loss and despair. No matter; he's already arrived at his destination, and he needs to move. _Now_.

* * *

Molly doesn't know it, but by the time she wakes up, Sherlock is already undercover in Spain. Seeing him at the grave was cathartic at best, but it provides the closure she needs. Tom, of course, had remained blissfully oblivious (as he often was), and not for the first time, she's struck by how different the two men are. But it doesn't matter, because Tom is sweet. Tom is safe. Tom is comfortable. He is polite, and everything that Sherlock's not, and that makes her happy. Right? Yes, of course it does. He'll be back soon, she's sure, but it doesn't matter. She's already made her choice, and she knows that it's the sensible, smart one. As she stretches her tired limbs, her fingers brush against the scarf on her bureau. When she picks it up, a note flutters to the ground. It's in the precise, slanted handwriting that she knows too well.

"Good luck, Molly Hooper." And she smiles.

Fin.

* * *

**Sooo what did you guys think? I may write more depending on whether or not people are interested. And please please please review :) I check all my reviews and they always make me reallllllyyyyy happy :3**

**Love,**

**Audrey**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey guys! Due to popular request, I have written a part two! :D (any additional parts will have to be requested through reviews, please and thank you ;) ) Anyways, thankyouthankyouthankyou to all the lovely people who reviews/gave me feedback and basically just inspired me to write this (you guys are literally the best)  
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**Also, many apologies for the lateness of this ;-; college apps and work and writer's block and yeah. I'll try to keep my updates more frequent c: (reviews help though, *cough cough* ) **

**So here it is! :D Enjoyyy  
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**PS: I forgot to put a disclaimer on my last chapter so here: **

**Disclaimer: Sherlock is not mine because if it was you can rest assured that Sherlolly would have happened a long time ago.  
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* * *

It's been exactly six months to the day since Sherlock last contacted Molly. Less than six months, if the little note he'd slipped into her scarf that last day counts as "communication".

Not that he's counting.

He's in Florence now, and he can't help imagine her beside him, walking the same streets, seeing the same sights. Perhaps it's because he knows that no one would appreciate this city more than she.

Perhaps it's because he's lonely and just wants her company.

In less than three days, he's already been knifed, bruised, and broken, and more than anything else, he wishes Molly were there to carefully stitch him back up, just as she had last time. It's not that she's necessarily better at it-his hands are steadier-but there's something strangely comforting in her touch.

When he's on the verge of breaking down, he wishes she were there to kiss him. _Kisses make everything better, _she'd said_. _Perhaps what they said was true, that absence makes the heart grow fonder.

If he were honest, he would have realized that he misses everything about her more than he should have, even right down to her disturbingly tasteless jumpers and ridiculously senile cat. He would have realized that the mindless chatter that he'd previously found so repulsive was endearing, in the way that only Molly Hooper could be. He would've admitted that he found himself imagining her indiscriminately sunny smiles and embarassingly pink blushes more than he cared to admit.

If he were honest, he would have admitted what exactly he thought of her. She's smart, she's funny, she's loyal.

She's kind, and she's beautiful.

She'd helped him fake his death (no small feat), helped cut through mountains of red tape, and she'd believed in him in a time when no one else would. She sees him, _knows _him, and despite this, still loves him with every ounce of her being. It's been a while since anyone has truly, _truly _loved him the way Molly does.

If he were honest, he would have admitted that she is special by virtue of being Molly, and there is no one in this world or any other that he would trust more than Molly Hooper. He would have realized that she mattered. That she was the one who counted, and perhaps always would.

All of this he would've admitted, if only he were honest, but he isn't, so he doesnt. Sherlock is far from honest, and if lying to himself masks the pain and regret he feels, then so be it.

What he also refuses to admit is that when he closes his eyes, and enters his mind palace, he can smell her vanilla and citrus scent in the air.

That all the rooms are closed, except one; the room he'd made for Molly, and the one he'd tried (and failed) to contain her in. He can see her footprints leading out of the room, and down the stairs, farther and farther, only to stop in front of a gated room he'd long since forgotten about.

Some would call it a heart, but for Sherlock, the neat, clinical, sign above the room simply reads, "sentiment". He finds his mind palace version of Molly curiously touching the lock.

_"Sherlock?" She asks, "What do you keep in here?"_

_"What are you doing here?" he snaps. She's not alarmed, the way she should be, and smiles patiently. _

_She touches the lock again, and the chains binding his heart begin to rust. He lunges forward, and yanks her arm away before the chain completely rusts away._

_"Sherlock...?" Her face is so full of love and concern that he loses any semblance of control._

_"GET. OUT." His mind palace version roars. _

And like a wisp of smoke, her image suddenly dissolves, and he's alone again.

Hours later, he sits, still quaking. She wasn't supposed to find it, she wasn't supposed to _actually try to get in, _dammit. Very few were actually able.

There was a time, once, when he'd thought he might've felt something for Irene Adler. She was witty, brilliant, charming, and had the sort of face that could have launched a thousand ships. But unlike Molly, she was too much like him, and in the end, it repulsed him. True, he'd..._cared _for her in his own way, but it had been nothing more than a game for both of them. In the end, he'd saved her as a last favor of sorts.

Irene wasn't Molly. Molly? Even then, even _now_, she was -_is_\- everything to him. That doesn't necessarily mean he regrets his actions.

He doesn't, because in a way, he was giving Molly her best chance at happiness, at survival. He was giving her what he should have given her a long time ago.

If he could change anything, he only wishes he could have done it in a way that would cause less pain. Physically, he knows she's okay, but can only guess at her mental welfare. But she'll get over it, won't she?

She's a phoenix, radiant, strong, and after the ashes, she'll only be stronger and better off for it. He returned her freedom, and now she can fly, even if its away from him. It's her best chance, and selfishly, maybe his too, because he knows that if something happened to his little beating heart, the game would be over, and everyone would lose.

Sherlock refuses to lose. He can't afford to. Not this time.

Of course, that doesn't mean he can't check up on her from time to time. He's gotten into the habit of checking the cameras he's planted in her flat when he can't sleep. Somehow, watching her putter around, feeding the cat and watching the telly soothe him more than a Xanax ever could.

And when he's feeling particularly sentimental, he'll have a member of his homeless network leave a bouquet of flowers at her doorstep. He never leaves sunflowers, and he never leaves them on Thursdays, because he knows that she'll know that it's him.

This morning, he decides to leave a bouquet of lilies for her. He seems to recall that she had a particular fondness for lilies.

_If only John could see him now,_ he thinks.

The great Sherlock Holmes reduced to leaving anonymous flowers, and for Molly, no less.

* * *

Molly nearly trips over herself that morning trying to get ready for work. She's late, so, so, so _late_, and tries to crawl out of bed as quickly as she can without waking Tom. She's in the bathroom trying to simultaneously tug her jumper on while brushing her teeth when Tom traipses in with that awkwardly bouncy gait of his. His hair is sticking up in all different directions.

"Hey Mo," He says, kissing her on the cheek. She detests this shortening of her name, but doesn't comment on it. It's cute that he has a pet name for her. Right? Don't couples do that? Of course they do.

"Hey! Oof, I'm actually running late, so is there any way you could feed Toby, maybe give him a bath?" She says through a mouthful of toothpaste. He looks slightly alarmed, the way he always does regarding any activity involving cats. He's always been more of a dog person anyways.

"Yeah, sure" he says uncertainly, and she beams. Even though he seems terrified of Toby, Tom still cares for him for her sake. He'd do so much for her, simply because he loves her, and he's proved that more times than she can count. She's lucky to have him, really.

On her way out the door, she nearly trips over the bouquet of lilies on her doorstep, and even though she's late, she runs back inside and throws her arms around Tom.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you!" She grins, punctuation each word with a kiss. It's so sweet of Tom to leave flowers for her.

"What?" He looks slightly puzzled.

"The flowers! They're lovely! How did you know I loved lilies?"

"But I didn't-" He interjects. She laughs, and chalks up his denial to shyness. He's the only one who's ever leave flowers for her. Clutching the flowers close to her chest, she runs back out the door. Its so _nice _to be loved and cared for and appreciated_. _Still_, _his denial givers her pause, and halfway down the street, she slows, suddenly unsure.

_Is it possible that...?_

No, no it's not.

She hasn't heard from _him _since she left that Thursday, and he would never do anything like that. It couldn't possibly be Sherlock. It's obviously Tom.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes is skilled at many things, not least of which his ability to foresee almost anything. After all, he didn't get to where he is now by sheer, dumb _luck_.

No, Mycroft is a machine, precise, and calculating. He'd known for months that Molly had always harbored feelings for his baby brother. That much was obvious. She practically fawned over the boy.

What he _hadn't _expected was that Sherlock would actually reciprocate those _feelings _for her.

Although in retrospect, he should have seen it coming; all the signs were there. Sherlock had always exhibited a strange sort of protectiveness over her. Sherlock may be possessive, but he's rarely ever protective. With the exception of John and that landlady, Mycroft can't recall a time when Sherlock had ever demonstrated such care and concern over another human being. No, Sherlock is in _love _with Miss Hooper; that much is certain.

They're both idiots for not realizing it.

Speaking of idiots, he wonders what on _Earth _Molly's doing with that Tom fellow. It doesn't take a Holmes (here he chuckles,) child to realize what's going on.

He's watching Molly and that dolt boyfriend of hers on the camera feed now. Tall, curly hair, navy scarf? Elementary, really. Miss Hooper's obviously still in love with Sherlock. Although there have been countless women who have tried (and failed) to capture his detestable little brother's heart, Molly is the only one who's ever succeeded, and that makes her different. Besides, Mycroft almost ... likes, if not respects, her. At the very least, she has a fully functioning brain, and while she'll never be as brilliant as him or Sherlock, he supposes she's as close as he can hope for. As far as he can tell, she's the only one of Sherlock's companions that he'd ever deem worthy of his time.

Since he can't be bothered to have children, the very least he can do is ensure that the future Holmes progeny will at least have a mother with decent genetic material to contribute. For all intents and purposes, Molly Hooper is more than qualified. Besides, he secretly delights in imagining his future nieces and nephews. He'll never admit it, of course, but he also can't help but think that they'd make some really cute babies for him to spoil. Her nose and his hair? His ingenuity and her curiosity? Priceless. Maybe Mummy will finally stop nagging him about grandchildren if Sherlock makes his own.

_If only they'd realize how perfect they are together, _he thinks, ruefully. How bloody _thick _can they be?

Perhaps if he were a being of inferior intellect, he'd even go as far as to say that he _shipped _them. But "shipping" implied a certain degree of uncertainty (and Mycroft was _never _uncertain), so he settled for "_waiting until his detestable little brother realized what his brilliant older brother already knew_".

He's tempted to drag Sherlock back from wherever he is now to give him a piece of his mind, but he suspects Mummy would appreciate the honor more. He can't exactly disappoint Mummy, can he?

He's replaying the footage again when Anthea clears her throat behind him.

Without so much as a glance in her direction, he declares:

"I give it 15 months." Mycroft spins his chair around to face her.

"Until what?"

He rolls his eyes.

"That idiot finally decides to court our Miss Hooper."

She gives him an enigmatic smile. "Make it 9."

Mycroft raises his eyebrows at her.

"You overestimate my brother, Anthea. You should know better than to bet against me by now." He's smirking now. "I _always _win."

Her face is impassive, but Mycroft can detect the slightest glimmer of smugness in her eyes.

"We'll see," is all she says before she changes the topic.

* * *

As the end of her shift nears, Molly wants nothing more than to go home and nap, but she has a date with Tom, and she's already cancelled the last two. She knows he'll understand if she tells him she doesn't want to go, but she doesn't want to let him down. Not again.

She constantly feels like she's disappointing him these days. Besides sitting in front of the telly, they don't really act much like a couple, and to be honest, it doesn't really bother her. It's comforting, but as of late, she feels herself sliding into complacency.

In any case, it doesn't deter Tom. He's like a puppy, constantly bouncing around her, eager to do everything and go everywhere with her, but she's been feeling run down for the past two months, and to be honest, her heart's just not in it right now.

Tom's picking her up at four thirty today, and as she glances at the clock, she's dismayed to see that it's already four. She'd so hoped to at least begin sorting through the ever growing stack of paper work sitting on her desk.

She's already waiting on the curb for him when he shows up at precisely 4:29. He loops his arm around hers and they leave Bart's together.

"So, Mo." He chirps, chuckling a little at his rhyme. "How was your day?" She's quieter than usual, but he doesn't seem to notice.

"It was fine," She doesn't bother with the details because she knows he's always been a little squeamish about her work. "What about you?" It's the only prompt he needs to immediately launch into the details on his latest client. She feels like they've been walking forever when he suddenly stops in front of a quaint little restaurant.

"You seemed a little tired, so I thought maybe we could just get a nice dinner." He says hesitantly, and she smiles at him as they walk in. So he did notice. And for the second time that day, she thinks how lucky she is to have a man like Tom.

* * *

When Agent Michael Champ was recruited by the one and only Mycroft Holmes four years ago, he'd imagined a very different lifestyle. Perhaps espionage rivaling that of James Bond was part of that fantasy, replete with car chases and stakeouts. At the very least, a break-in or three. Of all the scenarios he'd imagined, tailing a mousy pathologist and her boyfriend was not one of them. Mycroft had requested that he directly report on any suspicious findings or "developments" in their relationship. Michael wasn't sure how this contributed to national security. Perhaps they're spies? Are they dangerous? They seem harmless enough, but Michael knows well enough that appearances can be decieving. He can tell that something's different today, though.

As he watches the couple walk down the street, the man, "Tom" seems nervous, like he's planning something, and even from his distance, Michael can see the telltale sheen of sweat on his forehead.

Its not enough information to call Mr. Holmes about, but something's definitely up. When Molly stops to admire some street art, he sees Tom reach into his pocket and pull out a diamond ring before hastily shoving it back into his pocket.

Oh.

So he's proposing, then. He's not sure if this could count as one of the "developments" that Mycroft was referring to, but better safe than sorry.

He pulls out his phone, and as Mycroft's answering machine picks up, he shakes his head in disgust. Four years of training for this.

* * *

Sherlock will be in Russia after this, and if all goes well, the last phase of this near suicide mission will be complete. At best, he'll be home in just under six weeks, and at worst, well, that's something he'd rather not dwell on. He misses England more than he'd expected, even right down to the smoggy pollution and half-par food. A year is a long time to be away from home, away from loved ones, especially if the likelihood of returning is slim.

He'd packing the few posessions he has when Mycroft texts. He glances at his phone, sees that the text is about Molly and Tom, and stops reading. He'd asked to be updated, not to be informed with their every minute detail of their relationship. Molly isn't in danger; Mycroft would have called otherwise. She's safe, and the extra information is, for the moment, redundant. Besides, it's strangely unsettling for him to imagine Molly..._dating _someone.

Sherlock refuses to even consider the fact that he may or may not be jealous. He'd just rather be spared the details.

Perhaps if he'd just read the rest of the text, Sherlock would've realized that it wasn't just any mundane update, but he doesn't. So, he deletes the text, and any thoughts of Molly and Tim, or whatever the hell his name is, are instantly pushed to the back of his mind.

* * *

Tom drags her to a window overlooking the gardens.

"Do you like it?" He asks, eagerly. She smiles at him in response. "Actually, can you wait here? I'm just going to, um pop into the um...loo...yeah...I'll be right back."

He returns nearly fifteen minutes later from what appears to be the back of the kitchen, and she eyes him suspiciously.

"Tom...are you okay?" He tugs at his tie, and replies with a question of his own.

"So, what are you getting?" He asks, casually.

"The pasta looks good. I think I'll get the chicken fettu-"

"NO!" He shouts. She jumps a little in surprise. The other patrons turn to stare at him, and he lowers his voice. "I mean, um, don't get...that." She gives him a quizzical look and he hurries to explain. "Um, it's just that their cioppino is really good. You should...you should get...that." She decides to humor him, and when she orders just that, she sees him exhale a little in relief. Strange.

She's eating the cioppino he'd insisted she order when he makes another strange demand.

"Um, you should try the bread." He points at the garlic bread on the side. She gives him a strange look, but nevertheless, picks up the bread and begins to chew it while he watches.

"You're right, the bread is delic-" Suddenly, she starts to choke on something that feels suspiciously like a rock.

Molly's not quite sure what's happening, but she can feel the edges of the room beginning to blur and she coughs and chokes desperately. She can feel a firm hand wrap around her waist, and with a firm squeeze, whatever the _hell _was in her throat flies out of her mouth and onto the table.

Perhaps if she _hadn't _nearly choked to death she could have possessed the faculty of mind to see what it was she choked one, but at the moment, she was rather preoccupied.

"Oh my god! Molly, Molly, are you alright?! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so, so, so sorry, you could have died and that would've been...no Molly, it's all my fault and-" Tom's on his knees, patting her face and hair as if she'll vanish at any moment. She brushes his hands away.

"Tom, I'm _fine_! _What is going on_?!" He exchanges a look with the waiter.

"Well, I'd hoped that would go a lot more smoothly, but um, now its a story we can tell our children, eh?"

"Our _WHAT_?! So help me God, Tom, if you don't tell me what's going on in the next five seconds-"

In a single, nervous breath, he blurts,

"Molly Hooper will you marry me?" There's a moment of silence as the entire restaurant pauses.

_What?!', _she thinks. '_What is he doing?! Is he...?!' _As he begins to speak, she sees of all her family and friends swarm into the restaurant, clapping.

It takes her a moment to realize what exactly is going on. He's saying something, but she can't hear.

In the distance, she can vaguely see their waiter topping off her glass with celebratory champagne, and sees family and strangers alike gathering all around to utter their inevitable and requisite congratulatory statements. She feels the room is beginning to blur and contort, but she can still see Tom nervously awaiting her response. Dear lord, she's feeling faint. Her mouth opens before she even realizes that she doesn't have a response.

_Tom_.

Tom is stable, Tom is sweet, Tom is kind. He's helped her laugh, helped her heal, helped her _move on. _She can see a future with this man. He'd surely make an excellent father and husband, right? Hasn't he more than proven that over this past year? Yes, yes he has. She shouldn't be questioning it, she should be saying yes. She can almost hear Emma and Beth silently encouraging her. _Go on Molly, he's perfect for you. Why are you hesitating? _

Yes, she will accept, and she isn't necessarily...hesitating, per se, she...she's savoring the moment! Yes! That's what she's doing, and any minute now she's going to open her mouth and accept wholeheartedly. With all her heart. Yes. Because she loves him, and nothing could make her happier than marrying this man and entering the next phase of the greatest relationship she has ever had, and in no way will she jeopardize this one. Nope, not again. He loves her more than anyone ever has, and she loves him back. Yep.

All these thoughts whirl through her mind in less than a minute.

For Tom, its the longest minute he's ever endured. He'd been so sure she'd say yes. Is she hesitating? His smile begins to falter.

"Mo? Molly? Are you alright?" For Molly, the room snaps back into focus, the sound rushes back, and she suddenly realizes that she hasn't said a word.

"Y...Ye-es." says Molly quietly. "Yes. Yes!" She repeats this more confidently, grinning. He reciprocates with a delighted whoop of his own, and pecks her on the cheek. It's chaste, and a little sloppy, but at that moment, she couldn't have been happier. Emma and Beth pull her into a hug.

"Oh my gosh! Molly! I'm so happy for you! You two are so perfect!" Beth (or Emma, she can't really tell anymore because everything is a haze and she suspects she must still be in shock) squeals.

When she raises her glass to toast him, she finally gets a look at her new ring. The diamond is large and set in a diamond encrusted band. If she had to describe it in one word, she would haves choosen flashy, or ostentatious. It's beautiful, to be sure, and she knows many women that would die for a ring like this, but she can't help but think it is awfully glamorous, especially for a woman of her profession and taste. She's almost scared to even wear it for fear of losing or damaging it. She shakes that though from her head. She's being ridiculous. Its not the ring that matters, but the relationship. The ring just shows how much he cares, right? He'd gotten her the best ring he could. It's a symbol of his devotion. Even though she normally despises wearing rings (they snag on her gloves and performing autopsies with them on is messy at best), she thinks she can make an exception just this once.

* * *

A mere three weeks after the proposal, John Watson receives an invitation to Molly's engagement party. To say that he is surprised is an understatement; shocked or flabbergasted is more accurate. He hadn't realized just how out of touch with everyone he is. Sure, sometimes he'll still go out to lunch with Mrs. Hudson, or grab a pint or three with Lestrade, and sure, he'd heard rumors (whispers, really) here and there about Molly's new beau, but _engaged_? _Really_? Molly? _Molly_?

He'd been worried about Molly, especially after...his...death. He knew (_everyone _knew) about her devotion to...him. But he's happy for her, he supposes. It's good that she's made peace with his death.

It's too bad he can't do the same, but at that moment, he decides. If Molly can, so can he. He'd long since given up hope that Sherlock would be alive. Yeah, he'll miss the bloody bastard, and he always will, but he needs to start moving forward too. And when Mary walks in, he resolves to do just that.

* * *

Meanwhile, in Russia, Sherlock cocks his gun.

Aims.

And fires.

And in that last bullet, he's free. He sees the man slump down, and realizes that he can finally, _finally _go home now. But what he doesn't see is the glitter of triumph in the man's eyes before he dies. He doesn't see the laser aimed at his back, doesn't realize that someone is watching. He doesn't realize that it's a trap. Doesn't realize that he's just been outwitted. Suddenly, he feels uneasy. Something's wrong. He turns, sees the flash of movement, and feels the prick of a needle in his neck before he can even process what's happening.

He wakes up six hours later in Siberia, chained to a wall, and unable to move.

Shit.

* * *

It's two A.M. in London, and Molly's dreaming of Sherlock.

It's a lucid dream, the kind where the borders between reality and subconscious are blurred, and as she peers around this world, she feels the strangest sense of deja vu.

She's back, at Sherlock's grave, but this time, she's watching a vision of herself kneel in front of the headstone. Her chestnut hair is now a silvery grey, and her once youthful face is marred and lined with the effects of time. She's wearing black, and her aged hands are covered with dark lace.

And she watches, a visitor in her own subconscious, as the other Molly reaches over and strokes the once lush grass on his grave.

"Please Sherlock, come back," she hears herself say. "Come back,"

The other Molly is leaning against the headstone now, fingers pausing over the engraving, tears watering the grass.

The vision lifts her head and looks at Molly with such a griefstricken expression that she's temporarily paralyzed. Her hands beckon, and Molly sits next to her.

"It's different," says she. Molly isn't sure how to respond.

"I beg your pardon?"

The vision stands, gives the grave one final look.

"The ring," the woman says, as she removes the glove on her left hand. She too, has a ring on her fourth finger, but instead of flash and pomp, it's grace and elegance. Her ring is nothing more than a whisper of silver, with no jewels or otherwise to adorn it. Tom's ring suddenly feels heavy in comparison.

"It's different," is all she can hear before she is roused from her fitful slumber. And as she opens her eyes only to see Tom's beaming face, the woman's words continue to ring through her mind.

_It's different_.

* * *

**Okayyy and there it is! Update number two! Please let me know what you think c: either through PM or reviews 3 I try to update whenever I can, and I guess I'll just see where this story takes me ;) I know this is supposed to be a Sherlolly-centric fic, but there are some other characters here, so do you guys like that? or do you want it to be more like ch1? Let me know c:  
**

**Love,**

**Audrey**


	3. Chapter 3

Hello! I realize I've been rather slow in updating and that this chapter is terribly overdue :c but its mostly because I have no idea how I want the story to develop. For the followers of Collision Theory, I regret to inform you that I am seriously considering discontinuing that story and incorporating bits of the story arc into this one. Or I might just go back to one shots.

Anyways, Sherlock returns in this chapter! :D Some dialogue is liberally borrowed from the canon (which I unfortunately do not own :c ). This update is a little shorter than usual, but the action picks up a bit here. Also, this was kind of a last minute thing so this chapter isn't beta-ed.

I hope you enjoy, and love and cookies to all the lovelies that have reviewed/favorited/followed, and have generously put up with my sporadic updating.

* * *

If there's one thing Mycroft Holmes hates more than anything, it's being disturbed while he's sleeping. It's not often that he gets the opportunity to get a decent night's rest, so the few nights that he's actually able to, he likes to take full advantage of that.

His staff knows not to bother him with anything short of a full blown national catastrophe, but that's not to say his little brother is as considerate of his much needed beauty rest.

Anthea shakes him awake at the ungodly hour of three AM, and if the professionally pained expression on her face is anything to go by, she's just as annoyed as he is. Of course bloody _Sherlock _has gotten himself into yet another sticky situation.

Normally, he'd send his field agents to handle Sherlock's various scuffles, but he can't this time, because Sherlock is supposed to be dead, and dead men don't need rescuing. It's a delicate situation, and he needs to handle this himself. Anthea unceremoniously dumps the report on his bed.

He sighs, skims the first page, then the second, and is about to flip the page when something catches his eye at the bottom.

"_No_," He groans. Anthea's lips tighten in acknowledgment.

It's bad. Very bad. He knows he needs to get up _now _to sort this little fiasco out, but he really, really, _really _doesn't want to. His finally rises, pulling on his socks. The things he does for Sherlock Holmes.

It's been nearly twenty five years since he's done any field work, goddammit.

* * *

The fact that he's imprisoned and drugged does nothing to hamper the activity in Sherlock's mind, and if anything, the isolation only seems to spur it. He's been awake for a mere two hours, but already, he knows the details of each of his captor's lives more than perhaps even their own wives.

Considering that they each appear to have several mistresses on the side, he wouldn't be surprised if that were actually the case. He's the world's only consulting detective for a reason.

He has a plan to escape, but if his calculations are correct, he probably won't be needing it. It'd only take a few days at the very most to set his plan in motion, but he has a sneaking suspicion that Mycroft will come charging in to save the day, and just this once, Sherlock decides to let him have his fun.

His deductions are interrupted as one of his guards steps in, flanked by three others. Orders are quickly issued in Serbian, and within seconds, he's dragged into the adjoining room for questioning.

Molly is elbow deep in organs and body fluids when Tom marches in, panicking about the wedding caterer; apparently his grandmother is lactose intolerant, and _none _of the items on the menu are dairy free. He's certain that the wedding is in jeopardy, but _she's _certain that if she has to hear another wedding induced rant from him, she's going to commit a murder infinitely worse that the one she's currently investigating.

But she doesn't. She closes her eyes, and counts to three, and when she thinks she can finally face him without screaming bloody murder, she rips off her gloves, washes her hands, and both literally _and _metaphorically holds Tom's hand as he panics and blubbers and rants.

He's preparing to leave when his eyes suddenly zero in on her ringless hand. She's not sure if it's the calculating look on his face, or the scarf, but for a moment, his resemblance to Sherlock is so uncanny that her heart almost stops. The illusion vanishes the second he opens his mouth.

"Er, your ring? Um, it's not there?" She just barely managed to bite back an acerbic comment. "Did you lose it...?" His voice trails off, and his vaguely Sherlock-esque look is replaced with one of uncertainty.

"Didn't want it getting dirty and all." She explains with a shrug. Tom seems to accept this explanation.

"Oh, okay!" He chirps, happily. "Bye Mo!" With a peck on the lips, and a cheeky smile, he finally leaves, and Molly is once again left in peace.

Lips pursed in concentration, she pulls the ring out of her pocket and stares at it. She's gotten into the habit of not wearing it at work. It's so impractical, and to be honest, she's terrified of somehow losing it or damaging it.

Wearing it just seems like a burden, especially in her line of work.

And as she plunges her freshly gloved hands back into Mrs. Richardson's body, she grimaces.

Case in point.

* * *

Less than thirty kilometers away, John Watson is also staring at a ring, albeit for entirely different reasons. It's an older ring, lovely in it's quiet simplicity, and _this_, this is the ring he's going to use to propose to Mary. Mary is a symbol of his new life, and he's finally willing to commit to it.

_This is it, _he thinks. _She's the one_. He's known it for a while, but it's been hard for him, coming to terms with it. It's been such a long time since he's had a steady girlfriend (Sherlock kept scaring them off), but even so, he knows that _she _is special.

He's proposing, in less than four days, to the love of his life. To Mary.

He'd retrieved the ring from the family safe a few weeks ago, and he can almost feel it burning a hole in his sock drawer. Honestly, he hasn't been this terrified or excited since the pool incident with Moriarty. At the moment, he's trying to secure a dinner reservation for two at a swanky French restaurant.

All that's left is the actual proposal, and he really, really, wants it to be perfect.

_Well_, he thinks ruefully, _at least Sherlock can't screw this one up_.

* * *

"Questioning" is a very mild term for what Sherlock's captors are _really _doing to him. The man raises the metal pipe again, and Sherlock winces, mentally preparing himself for hit number fifty four.

Fifty four is the number of blows the guard has dealt him, and any second now, it's going to be fifty five.

He counts to block out the pain, and with each hit, it's getting harder for him to conceal his agony. It's only the methodical enumeration of the abuse that's keeping him sane right now.

_Torture_, Sherlock reflects, _apparently hasn't changed much in the past millenia or so. _

Fifty six.

Between blows, he sneaks glances around the room, and spots another figure hunched in the corner, feet propped against the table.

Fifty seven.

He grunts in pain this time, and his tormentor yanks him by the hair, hissing to him in Serbian.

"Why are you here?"

Fifty eight.

When Sherlock doesn't seem to immediately respond, he raises the pipe to strike him again.

"You were in the navy. Unfortunate love affair, and now you're here. Funny isn't it, how things turn out? Incidentally, the electricity in your bathroom isn't working, and your wife is having an affair with your...neighbor. A carpenter? No, likely a coffin maker. I imagine that if you were to go home now, you'd find ample proof," The words spill out of Sherlock's lips at his usual breakneck speed. The guard suddenly freezes, pipe halting in mid air.

In the corner, the other soldier finally speaks.

"Well? What is he saying?" The man's accent is thick, and while his Serbian is good enough to pass for a local, Sherlock's practiced ears can still detect slight traces of foreign influence. It's enough to confirm his suspicions, and he hides his smirk behind his hair.

It's about damn time his brother showed up.

The guard relays the conversation to Mycroft before storming out of the room, presumably to confront the adulterous wife.

With a dramatic air befitting the elder Holmes, Mycroft slides his feet off the table and saunters over towards Sherlock.

"So, my friend. It's just you, and me. You really have no idea how long it took me to find you."

"There's really no need for theatrics, Mycroft."

"Oh, but where's the fun in that?" Sherlock rolls his eyes, and Mycroft sighs, his expression now serious. "Listen to me, there's an underground terrorist network active in London and a massive attack is imminent. Sorry, but the holiday is over, brother dear." He releases Sherlock from his bonds, and dusts invisible lint off his pants.

"Back to Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes,"

Sherlock smirks.

_Back to Baker Street, indeed. _

* * *

Molly sees Mike's message on her answering machine when she returns home from grocery shopping.

She presses the button, and his voice fills her tiny flat.

"Hi Molly!" The volume's too high, and she flinches, hastily turning the volume back down. Tom's sleeping, and she really doesn't want to wake him up.

"It's Mike," the message continues, "Just wanted to say that the supervisor position you were asking about just opened up, and Dean decided to give it to you. You'll receive official confirmation next week, I think, but I just thought you'd want to know. Congrats, Molly, you really deserve it!" With a beep, the message ends.

The squeal slips out of her mouth before she even realizes it, and she leaps around the room in delight. She's wanted this position for so long, not only because of the minor pay raise, but because she'll finally be able to mentor the younger interns.

She's silently screaming and crying at the same time when Tom walks in, blearily rubbing his eyes.

"What happened?" He yawns.

"I got the position!" His face lights up too and she revels in her accomplishment. Eyes wide, he can't quite seem to decide what to say.

"_No_,"

"I did! I did, I did, I did!" She grins, punctuating every word with a little jump. He grabs her hands, and laughs, twirling her around the room in celebration.

When they finally collapse, dizzy and exhilarated, he crushes her in a giant hug.

"I'm so proud of you, Mo," She giggles at him, and in that moment, she feels untouchable.

Nothing can ruin this.

No one can take away her happiness.

This is the high point of her month.

* * *

The low point comes less than a week later, on a cloudy Thursday afternoon.

The bearers of the news are Anderson and Lestrade, of all people. They waltz into her new office unexpectedly as she's preparing to leave for lunch.

Molly's happy to see Lestrade, but a little uneasy to see Anderson. She's never really had a problem with him, per se, but his once inane conjectures are a lot closer to the truth than he realizes, and she's always worried that he'll realize that she knows something. He may be an idiot, but he's still more perceptive than most credit him for, and Molly knows better than anyone to never underestimate anyone.

The requisite pleasantries have barely been exchanged when Anderson, squirming like a child on caffeine, suddenly blurts out the news.

"Sherlock's back! Turns out the bloody sod wasn't dead after all! He _faked _it," Anderson declares, and with no small amount of satisfaction, launches into a victorious "I was right and everybody else was wrong," diatribe. But Molly's not listening, because suddenly all she can hear is "Sherlock's back,"

Sherlock?

_Back_?

He's _back_?

Sherlock bloody _Holmes_?

She suddenly feels lightheaded.

Sherlock is back. And he didn't even have the decency to tell her himself. The bastard.

"Hey Molly?" Lestrade's voice cuts through her thoughts. "Weren't you the one that performed his autopsy?"

Shit.

She mumbles some excuse, and although Lestrade looks suspicious, he doesn't say anything.

"It's _Sherlock_," scoffs Anderson. "With all due respect, Greg, the bleeding bastard could outwit _anyone_. Faking his death is _nothing_."

With a rueful laugh, Lestrade concedes his point, and the subject is changed. Moments later, both Lestrade and Anderson are both on their merry way, and Molly is left alone again.

It hurts, hurts more than she'd like to admit. If Molly Hooper was an honest woman, she'd admit that it hurts that he hasn't tried to seek her out even though he's clearly back.

There's no danger, so why didn't he? Even a "Hello, how are you? I'm back in London, by the way." would have sufficed. Does she really mean so little to him?

She tells herself that he's not worth it, and that she doesn't care, but it isn't working.

There's no reason for her to feel this way. She's done with Sherlock, has been done with Sherlock for weeks, but for the first time in months, Molly can almost feel herself relapsing into her former insecurities. She was a fool for believing his pretty lies.

_You matter, Molly._

No, she doesn't.

* * *

It doesn't take long for the news to travel after that, and for the rest of the day, she's bombarded by questions from curious colleagues.

To her credit, she is poised, clinical, and any inner turmoil she feels is carefully concealed. She doesn't need Sherlock Holmes, and he doesn't need her.

But to the few that actually ask her how she feels, she smiles, and perfects her lie.

She's fine.

* * *

She thinks of him, again on her way home.

Briefly.

Maybe.

Not really.

She lies again, this time to herself.

She's fine.

* * *

Please leave comments and reviews! Also, feel free to PM me if you have prompts :)

I also realize that the story summary isn't the best and if anyone wants to submit a better one, I'll change it. Thanks everyone! :)

~Audrey


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